Whiskey, Water, and Tears ('Til I Thought That We Would Drown)
by Awkward Turtleduck
Summary: Quinn and Santana bond over a bottle of whiskey and some Russian novels on a rainy Saturday.


**Whiskey, Water, and Tears ('Til I Thought That We Would Drown)**

_Quinn and Santana bond over a bottle of whiskey and some Russian novels on a rainy Saturday._

It started raining early in the morning and hasn't stopped since, though it didn't pour with a consistent vehemence, at times lightening up to a drizzle. Quinn Fabray loved this kind of weather; she could just stay in her apartment, curled up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate on the table and a good book on her lap.

But it was also a Saturday and Saturdays no longer gave her much peace.

The careless clacking of heels outside her apartment was all the warning Quinn got before the door to her apartment opened, and Santana Lopez striding into the place like it was hers. The censure on Quinn's lips have long since died, when it became fairly obvious that Santana would just shrug it off like how she was now shrugging her gray coat, with little droplets clinging on to it, off before hanging it on the stand by the door. She dropped her umbrella beside the stand, oblivious to the puddle it was forming.

"I could get you arrested for breaking in and entering, you know."

Santana made her way into the living room where Quinn was lounging on the thrift-store couch. She just eyed the other woman, or rather the book which she didn't even look up from, before taking her place on the opposite end of the couch, displacing Quinn's feet. When Quinn finally raised her eyes from the book to glare at the intruder, Santana smirked. "It's not breaking in and entering when I use the key."

"And pray tell how you managed to get a copy of my key without my knowledge _or_ consent?"

Santana shrugged her shoulders. "Things you learn in Lima Heights."

Quinn let out a scoff before burying her nose again in her book.

Santana looked around her before her eyes fell on the stack of books on top of the coffee table beside the couch. "Russian week?"

Quinn hummed in response.

"Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?"

Another hum.

Santana rolled her eyes before kicking off her boots and putting her feet on the couch, kicking Quinn on the hip in the process. Hazel-green eyes flashed, but Santana just shrugged her shoulders again. "I'm trying to make conversation here, bitch."

"And _I'm_ trying to read here, slut." Quinn closed her book. "Besides, why do you keep on coming here like every single fucking weekend? Don't you have better things to do in New York?"

Santana cocked her brow. "Nothing beats messing with your study time. Besides, the hobbit and Porcelain are too busy with rehearsals right now so it's pretty boring there. And then there's this pass from New York to New Haven lying around unused so…"

Quinn huffed in exasperation. "I bought that pass for Rachel, Santana. Buy your own!"

"Whoa there, Fabgay, I'm not depriving your midget lover of any opportunity to see you; as I've said I'm only using it when she isn't. Turns out these past few weeks have been really hectic for her; she's actually been more annoying than usual, bitching about her dance teacher and all." Santana quirked her eyebrow. "Missing her so bad?"

"Stop projecting on me, Santana. And for the last time, Rachel and I are just friends."

Santana scrunched up her nose. "Ew, even that still sounds gross."

"You live with her," Quinn pointed out.

"Never said we were friends."

Quinn rolled her eyes.

Santana waited for a comeback, and when it didn't come, she spoke up again. "Hey, if you maybe went out a little more, instead of holing yourself up in your apartment, I might not be so tempted to come here and play twenty questions with you." Santana studied her newly manicured nails. "But then again, emulating a hermit-crab is better than fucking middle-aged professors to satisfy your daddy-complex."

The kick that Quinn aimed at Santana was so powerful that she managed to dislodge the other woman from the couch, making Santana land on her butt with a scream and a resounding thud.

"You bitch!"

"Oh please, like that would hurt you, what with your huge ass."

"Nice to know you've been checking me out. Thought you weren't really that into _that_?" Santana stood up and gingerly rubbed her behind.

"Yeah sure, Santana. Go ahead and think that every girl that looks your way is totally gay for you, then go back to Lima and break up with your girlfriend—oh wait! you already did that, and you don't have one anymore and now she's happy with somebody else. You'd have thought you'd learn your lesson by now."

The moment that the words were out of Quinn's mouth, she knew she had gone a tad too far, even if Santana's earlier jibe was also below the belt. But neither of them was the type to apologize, or even hold a conversation without insulting each other, and so Quinn just waited patiently as Santana's face flushed and her brows knitted together.

Quinn readied herself for the barrage of insults but it never came.

Santana just glared at her before shaking her head and muttering, "Whatever." Instead of sitting back on the couch, she opted to just sit on the floor, rifling through the stack of books on the table.

If they were a normal pair of friends, Quinn would be asking her by now how she was holding up, if she wanted to talk about it (even though it has been months since the revelation that Brittany has started dating Sam and faux-marrying him last Christmas). But they weren't that type of friends so Quinn just said, "Dostoevsky."

Santana didn't look at her and instead continued leafing over her books. Quinn rolled her eyes, before settling back on the arm of the couch. She flipped her book open to resume reading. She was about to turn the page when Santana spoke up.

"Yeah, me too. Tolstoy's too clean for me, too organized, too…"

"Sane?"

"Yeah, that."

Quinn closed her book again. She saw that Santana had also stopped leafing through the books and was now reclining against the foot of the couch. "It's like Jane Austen and Emily Brontë. One's too clinical, and the other is just sheer madness."

"That's true, but that 'madness' resonates with me more."

"Doesn't it do that to us all?"

"No, my classmates don't like _Heights_ at all. It's too knotty, too violent for their tastes."

"They must be living such bland lives."

"Yeah, the most exciting thing that probably happened to them is having sex at the backseat of a car."

Santana turned her face to look at Quinn. "Would you rather have that?"

"Have sex in a car?" Quinn screwed up her face in disgust. "No, thank you."

"I mean, would you rather not have been knocked up and all that shit?" When Quinn didn't answer, Santana let out a hollow laugh. "Of course you'd prefer that. Who in their right mind would want to get pregnant at sixteen?"

"I honestly don't know," said Quinn finally. "Things like that, thinking over the past as if you had a choice, I don't do that. I'll never be able to change anything that has already happened, no matter how much I think about them." Then after a pause, she asked, "How about you? Would you rather not have been outed?"

Santana shrugged. "Yeah, of course. But then again, you know, those months after that commercial was aired, when I could hold…" Santana's voice softened, "Brittany's hand in public and call her my girlfriend, I thought that those could be counted as good things. I mean being forced out of the closet, with the glorious bonus of being disowned by my abuela, was a nightmare but, because of that, I also learned to just simply show the world how in love I am with Brittany. And those months afterwards, especially that dance at the Sugar Shack, and the Prom, I don't think I'd have been able to have such a good time had that commercial not aired. I probably would have still been hiding under a napkin." Santana laughed awkwardly. "I'm not making sense." She bowed her head, blinked rapidly and swallowed the lump in her throat.

Quinn let the silence stretch on for a minute before speaking. "I get what you mean, though. I did get into Yale with my sob story, so that could only count as a good thing. And I've made friends in the glee club, too, so I guess I'm good."

"Maybe you're right in not thinking about all these. Things happened and we just pick up the pieces of ourselves and move on."

"Even if everything hurts like a bitch."

Santana smiled. "Yeah, even if everything hurts like a bitch."

And because the atmosphere started to feel too nauseatingly friendly-fuzzy-warm, Quinn kicked Santana on the shoulder. "You brought whiskey, right?"

Santana scoffed and swatted Quinn's foot away. "Bitch, please."

"That's the only reason I'm still letting you in on my apartment."

"Stop pretending. You can buy your own liquor; admit it, you like my company."

"Depends. Will you admit you had a crush on me while we were on the Cheerios?"

Santana's face flushed and she slapped Quinn's calves. "Who's full of herself now?"

Quinn burst out laughing. "It's all right, Santana. Now go and get the booze. I'm too sober to hang out with you."

Santana fought back a smirk. "Don't you remember you got knocked up that one time you got drunk? You'd have thought you'd learn your lesson by now."

"Please, like you'd get me knocked up."

"Please, like I'd ever let you up on all these." Santana gestured to her front.

"Like _I'd_ ever let _you_ up on all these," Quinn shot back, waving to her own body.

Santana quirked her eyebrow, which Quinn matched with her own. Then they both burst out laughing.

**xxx**

"Mitya, Vanya or Alyosha?"

"Vanyaaa," slurred Quinn. "Always and forever… Vanya!"

Santana chuckled. "Makes sense you'd go for the tortured intellectual."

"As for you… I'm guessing you'd go for… Mitya!"

"Bitch, please. Just because I wants to get my mack on doesn't mean I drown myself in carnal passions."

Quinn just arched her eyebrow that plainly said, 'Oh really now?' Santana rolled her eyes and grabbed the bottle of whiskey.

"Don't tell me you like Vanya, too? That doesn't make any sense."

Santana laughed.

Quinn frowned in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just funny how Alyosha is out of the question for both of us."

"Alyosha's irritating. Boring and irritating."

"But attractive."

"Sinners always find figures of virtue and purity attractive." Then after a beat, Quinn added, "I bet Brittany would like Alyosha… so pure and loving, and willing to see, or maybe imagine… the bright spots in our black souls… ha ha!"

Santana didn't say anything but just took along swig from the whiskey bottle. Quinn didn't notice that her companion's face had darkened into a scowl, grabbing instead her copy of 'Brothers Karamazov.' "How come you've read this again?"

"Some dickhead professor told me that I had to report on the whole book, giving me just one week to finish the damn thing, which I did, mind you. Only for him to change his mind at the last minute and said I need only to report on one freaking chapter, the one on the Grand Inquisitor."

Quinn laughed. "That's your fault for not clarifying it. But really, you didn't just resort to Cliffnotes or something?"

"Bitch, you weren't the only literate Cheerio around, you know. Besides I really liked the book." Santana took another swig from the bottle. "Hey, since you like Ivan, does it mean you believe in the same things he does?"

"What things?"

"Like returning the ticket to salvation."

Quinn squinted at Santana before reaching out for the bottle. She almost knocked it over but caught it just in time. She brought it to her lips and took a deep pull before answering. "I already did… that night when my father threw me out of the house."

"But you still kept on wearing your cross," said Santana, frowning.

"God may have forsaken me but that doesn't mean I have forsaken Him."

"That is screwed up. You're drunk."

"And you're not drunk enough." Quinn pushed the bottle back to Santana, nearly tipping it over. "Drink!"

Santana rolled her eyes but took the bottle and drank from it. She winced at the burn in her throat. "You're not such a good Christian after all."

"Would have been, if God was good."

"And now that's blasphemy."

"Well how about you, St. Lopez? Is your slate so clean that the angels would weep a bridge of tears for you to cross to heaven?"

"Shut up, Fabray. I never said I was good."

"Did you ever want to be?"

"Maybe." Santana picked at the peeling label of the bottle. "Especially when my abuela kicked me out of the house. Afterwards when I was in my car, I cried so hard and wished that I had been good all my life instead, thinking that all good things would outweigh my being gay." Santana laughed. "How stupid is that, though? That's not how things work."

Quinn eyed her for a moment before speaking. "I don't understand God's ways and I know that we were brought up to not question His will or something but He gave us brains to think, didn't He? Some days it gets so bad, especially when I remember Beth and the feel of her hands on my skin, and I think how she is the only beautiful thing I had ever been fortunate enough to be a part of, but that I had to give her up because the circumstances just weren't right… And those nights when I keep having these nightmares of being turned out of the house, of being at a stranger's place because my parents couldn't love me enough to keep me, or the rehashing of that terrible past I wanted desperately to forget, of that ugly girl that nobody wanted… it's crazy, it's selfish, considering how there are other people out there with worse problems than these but that comparison and guilt-tripping don't change the fact that these things that have happened in my life were real… and that they still hurt."

Even in Santana's numbed mind, she knew that at this moment, normal people with a beating heart and warm blood coursing down their veins would go over Quinn's side and gather her in her arms and whisper assurances against her hair. But Santana wasn't like those normal people; she was a cold-hearted bitch, and so was Quinn. Cuddling wasn't their style. Santana just looked on silently.

Quinn blinked, as if finally realizing where she was and who she was with. She looked at Santana, her eyes dry despite the brokenness of her voice. "I have no need for a ticket to salvation; it's already too late."

"I know," Santana murmured. "I know." She handed the bottle to the other woman. "I wouldn't want one, either."

After Quinn took a swig from the bottle, she asked, "Do you know what Zizes asked me when she confronted me about my middle school pictures? She asked me if I changed myself because I hated myself so much."

"What did you say?"

"I told her that no, I did all those things precisely because I loved myself."

"Such a screwed up way of loving."

"Like you're the one to talk. Why did you have a boob job then, huh?"

Santana could feel her head getting heavier. With a supreme effort, she rolled her eyes and muttered, "Whatever, Fabray."

Santana half-expected for Quinn to goad her on but when she didn't, Santana glanced over at her and found the other woman staring blankly at the floor in front of her. Santana let her eyes flicker on the bare walls of the apartment. She had never really taken a good look at the place, since there was nothing much to look at anyway. But now, even in her inebriated state, Santana could see that even in its bareness, the whole place still managed to exude Quinn's aura.

Which didn't make any sense at all since bareness wasn't the first word that anyone would associate with Quinn.

But thinking about it now, everything made a little more sense. Quinn was empty, which was why Santana supposed she had been trying to cling on to things that she thought would give her life meaning—for most of her high school life, popularity in the form of Cheerios and her campaign for Prom Queen, and for a brief moment, a vision of a life with Beth.

In a way, she and Quinn were the same. Santana wasn't empty, but she was filled with fear. The feelings that made her different from what she had been brought up to be had puzzled her at first, but when they became a serious matter that involved doing 'stuff' with one's female best friend and enjoying it, even more than when she did it with guys, she was scared shitless. All too clearly she became aware of what she had to lose.

And so, like Quinn, she tried holding on to things that she thought would make her happy, these things they were brought up to believe were important. And just like Quinn, she realized that these weren't the answer.

Quinn was still empty; Santana was still scared.

Where they were now wasn't really different from where they were before. But it wasn't also the same. They were now both aware and were not so desperately clinging on to the glitter. (Although they still yielded to temptation every now and then, but at least not so often.)

What startled Santana out of her thoughts was the sound of a sob. She looked up to find Quinn hunched over and her shoulders shaking. Her cheeks were wet but she was… smiling. No, she was laughing, even as another sob escaped her lips.

"The fuck, Fabray, don't go crazy on me now. I'm too drunk to deal with that shit."

Quinn just shook her head before meeting Santana's brown eyes. "Remember Nationals in New York? …Aren't we supposed to be the popular girls?"

It took a few seconds before Santana remembered. She smiled bitterly. "Then why can't we be the ones to have our happy endings."

"Maybe because the protagonists in those stories never hated themselves as violently as we hated ours," said Quinn, full-out laughing now. "I read a poem somewhere that went like this: 'I'm not looking for anything phenomenal, the o.k. is perfectly fine; sometimes that's asking for too much.'" Quinn shook her head again.

"That's bullshit. I won't ever stop demanding for my happy ending, and neither should you." Santana reached over to grab the nearly-empty bottle from the other woman's hands. "After all the shit we've been through, it's our goddamn right to have unparalleled success and happiness. I'll be sure to make it happen and so should you. You hear me, Fabray?"

Quinn just looked at her with that half-smile on her lips. Then her green eyes travelled to the bottle now in Santana's hands. She laughed again. "We should've gotten vodka, don't you think? Russian novels and all."

Santana tried rolling her eyes but only managed to squint. "Well, next time inform me of the theme beforehand, bitch."

"Will do, slut." Quinn eyed her blearily. "Glad to know you're no longer the weepy drunk."

"There's nobody here I'd cry over."

"Not even yourself?"

"Especially not myself." Santana downed the remains of the bottle. "Never pegged you for the crazy drunk either."

"Am not."

"With all the weirdass craughing, could've fooled me."

"Shut up."

"Why don't you go get us water? I'd hate having a pounding headache on a Sunday."

"Don't order me around."

"I brought the whiskey; you just have to bring me water now."

Quinn rolled her eyes and huffed but got up anyway and made her way to the kitchen. Santana laughed when she nearly stumbled.

"Fuck you, Santana."

"You wish, Fabray. You wish."

**xxx**

"The rain still hasn't stopped. Never took New Haven to be a wet place. Aren't you afraid that this place is gonna get flooded or something?" Santana leaned sat on the windowsill, leaning against the frame. She was looking at the darkness outside, only faintly making out the blurry orange lights from the streetlamps in the heavily pouring rain.

"Clearly you're an outsider," muttered Quinn, still sprawled out on the couch.

"And clearly, your tolerance hasn't improved. Seriously, Q, I would've thought that plying you with alcohol every weekend would toughen you out. Or at least the shots you must have been taking in order to get through your quickies with Professor Higgins."

Quinn scowled and grabbed the cushion from the couch and threw it at Santana. She missed her mark and the cushion just bounced off the sill. "I never slept with him… and your reference is awful. I bet you got that from Rachel."

Santana rolled her eyes and scoffed. She picked up the pillow and tossed it back to the other woman. "Drink up, Q. You still have some novels to finish reading."

"When did you grow a conscience?"

"Foresight, not conscience. You're going to kick my ass if you don't get an A on this report, aren't you?"

"You know me so well," observed Quinn dryly, grabbing the cushion and burying her face on it.

"Too easy, Q. Too easy."

When Quinn didn't move or talk for the next few minutes, Santana walked over to the table to get rid of the bottle. She glanced at the woman at the couch and rolled her eyes again.

"God, Q, death by asphyxiation is too boring; that won't get whatever shit you're writing published. Put your head inside the oven, at least, will you?" she muttered as she removed the cushion from her friend's face. "Or stuff your pockets with some rocks or something and go wade outside."

"San…nana…" Quinn mumbled. Santana paused for a moment before leaning closer to her face. "Imma tell you a secret…"

Santana waited but when Quinn still hadn't said anything, she huffed impatiently. "What?"

"I'm glad… you and Brittany broke up." Santana's eyes widened even as anger, hurt and confusion burned in her chest. But Quinn was oblivious to it as she still had her eyes screwed shut and her mouth hanging half-open.

"Why?" Santana asked quietly, keeping her emotions in check.

"Because now… we have a real shot at being friends."

The retort was at the tip of Santana's tongue, something along the lines of _What the fuck are you talking about? We're the Unholy Trinity!_ but just as quickly, she realized the truth of Quinn's words. Even if it was bitter to taste, the truth was it had always been Brittany-and-Santana and then Quinn. Admittedly, both Brittany and Santana had been too caught up with each other to pay attention to anybody else.

Which was why Quinn had gone batshit crazy on senior year.

They weren't there for her. Santana wasn't there for her.

Santana was never really there for her.

Santana dropped her eyes, and despite the weirdness of acting like normal friends between the two of them, she reached over to brush the stray strands of blond hair from Quinn's face before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss on her temple.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"We're drowning, aren't we?"

Santana bit her bottom lip. "The rocks are too heavy."

"And we can't remove them."

"Our pockets have been sewn tight so well." Then after a beat, she added. "And that just sounded wanky."

Quinn let out a rusty chuckle. "Yeah… but at least we have each other…" Her voice softened, as if afraid of hearing the answer, "Right?"

Santana felt her throat constrict and her nose sting. "Right," she croaked out.

A small smile appeared on Quinn's lips, even as her eyes remained close. It was a smile that Santana knew so well, the smile full of heartbreak and sadness and that defiant resignation that was so uniquely Quinn.

"I'm here, Quinn. I won't leave you."

"Don't say words that you don't mean."

"I meant what I said, and I said what I meant."

"Dork. You're not an elephant."

"And you're a dork, too, for even knowing where that came from."

"Go to sleep."

"Don't boss me around, bitch. And if you insist on sleeping on the couch, I'm going to take your bed."

"Do whatever you want… just let me sleep."

Santana let out a sigh of exasperation. "Scoot," she said, nudging Quinn to move closer to the backrest of the couch.

"Go away, the couch is too small," Quinn grumbled, her brows crinkling.

"You said that I could do whatever I want and I wants to sleep on the couch. Now move."

"God, you're so annoying!"

"Go to sleep, Quinn," Santana smirked, as she settled beside the other woman on the couch. "And no groping."

"As if! You're the one who's insisting on invading my personal space."

"You like it."

"I do not."

"I thought you were going to sleep?"

"Ugh, won't you just please shut up?"

Santana laughed but didn't utter a retort. She could feel the fatigue of the day and the alcohol she had imbibed finally bearing down on her, add to that the comfortable combination of the rain outside and the warmth of a company beside her and she was all too ready to drift off to sleep, even with the lights on.

She rolled to her side until she was facing Quinn's back. She looked at the gentle slope of the other woman's shoulders, how they seemed so fragile, and yet these very same shoulders have carried the weight of a father's iron-fist rule, the loneliness of a scared little girl, the shame of a pregnant teen, and the cold indifference of the people who had proclaimed themselves her friends.

A feeling of intense admiration and respect coursed through Santana, making her lean closer to press her lips on Quinn's right shoulder. Quinn stirred a little. "I'm not Brittany."

Santana bristled at that before she took in the harsh yet brittle edge in Quinn's voice. "I know," she sighed. "That's why I'm here." She wrapped her arms around Quinn's waist, squeezing her a little. "Good night, Quinn."

Quinn lowered her hand from her chest to cover Santana's, lacing their fingers together. "Good night, Santana."

They didn't really do the whole friend schtick, like at all, and maybe it was all the whiskey and rain, but they both supposed that they could keep each other from drowning tonight.


End file.
